Gambit
by Thessaly
Summary: Chess. Florence encounters Anatoly again. Just where has he been, anyway? It should be another situation to avoid, but with Molokov in town and a mutual friend behaving oddly, there seems to be no avoiding it.


It had been a very bad week, even for a native Czech who was pushing fifty and had worked in some form of high-level Anglo-Soviet PR for over thirty years. Florence Vassey, trudging home on that particular Friday, was grateful for her hand-made Cuban heels and very little else. Oh, well, make that also her very soft bed. She had the door open and was eight feet from the sofa and ten from the kitchen and the evening mug of tea when her mobile went off. 

"Bollocks," said Florence. "Hello?"

"All right, Flossie?"

"I'm all right, Oliver. Just got in and was looking forward to putting my feet up."

Oliver, unfortunately, didn't seem to take the hint. "You'll never guess what just happened – I got a call from Anna."

Oh, dear. Florence sat down. "Really?"

"Yeah, she said she was sorry about – you know, all that stuff last year, and that she'd been going through a pretty bad time, but she wanted to meet up for drinks."

"What did you say?"

Her enthusiastic colleague paused then said, sheepishly, "I told her yes."

"Christ, Oliver. You want to let her get to you again?"

"It wasn't _all_ her fault."

"More or less." Florence eased her shoes off and threw her feet up against the sofa.

"I know! Flossie, why don't you join us at the pub? Then it won't be so awkward."

"Oliver…" They'd hired him four years ago and she still hadn't figured out where he got his energy. Maybe it was just something inherent – part of the genetics of being Jamaican. There was something to be said for that theory, Florence thought whimsically. Some kind of geographical determinism would certainly explain her present lethargy – because what were Czechs but tired these days? All their energy went in 1956. "Oliver, I'm an old lady. A _knackered_ old lady. Why don't you ring up Chris and Chloe Wilton? They're respectable."

"Yeah, but they're in Yorkshire for Sophy's birthday. And you _know_ Alex is working overtime, so don't suggest him and Cat."

Florence laughed in spite of herself. "Do you have any friends that _don't_ work with us?"

"Uh…No, I don't think I do. Well, except the Wiltons - "

" – who are in Yorkshire," Florence finished. "All right. You ring Anna and tell her you're coming here, and I'm going to knock up Cat and see if she wants to join us."

"But I'll be the only bloke," Oliver protested.

"Too late – you started it. And – Oliver?"

"Hmm?"

"Be careful what you say, all right?"

"Honestly, Flossie, I'm a big boy – And since when do _you_ care about my love life?"

She laughed again. "I told you, I'm an old lady, and I'm old enough to not want the handsome young men the bureau lends me for decoration to get their hearts broken. See you in an hour, Oliver."

---

It was a beautiful hotel, right in the center of the city. Sleek and gleaming, it sent forth a waft of smug leather and bay rum, sleek machinery, velvet hangings, cut crystal in the restaurant and French soap in the marble bathrooms. The phone rang and the man in the chair picked it up. "Mr. Molokov?"

"Speaking."

"Your car is here."

"Thank you." Alexander Molokov hung up the phone and, five minutes later, got into a sleek black BMW which, like most of the rest of this city, reeked of capitalism and expats and other unmentionables. 

There were two men in the back seat, a bodyguard and one in a very sharp suit, severe and completely enigmatic behind his dark glasses. "Welcome to London," he said. His Russian was laconic and had a noticeable accent. Molokov winced. He'd been an agent since the 70's and knew enough not to complain about the new London boss, but – a Siberian? _Really_? 

"Thank you." Molokov sighed and looked at the man again, then at the bodyguard. He was liking this gambit less and less with every passing second in this car. "And you can find them? We need both of them out of the country soon – London isn't safe any more."

"Safe for whom?" demanded the Siberian ironically. "One of them, he works with the government here. The bureau says he's OK. The other one – who knows. He could be anywhere."

"_That's_ hardly helpful."

"We make inquires about him now." 

---

Florence stayed on the sofa for another ten minutes, then found the energy to put her shoes back on and call Cat Vellis, who lived three floors up and worked in the same office as Florence and Oliver. Cat laughed when Florence explained her predicament. "Sure, no problem." Even after years in England she retained her New York twang, and there was something comforting about her fast and practical approach to dealing with anything. "We packed Natalie off to Yorkshire with the Wiltons anyway, so it's not even like I have to babysit. Alex is out for the evening but I'll be down in five."

By the time Oliver and Anna arrived, Cat was downstairs on Florence's sofa where they drank mugs of tea and swapped stories about working the professional circuit. "No, no, I swear, Lily Rad was harder to work with than _anybody_. Even Bobby Fischer, and he was legitimately nuts."

Florence shook her head. "You just say that because Freddie Trumper was before your time. Lily Rad looks like a kind and thoughtful individual next to Freddie."

Cat laughed. "I know Lily."

"I know Freddie."

When Oliver arrived he cut them off and added, "Besides, Flossie, you know _perfectly well_ that the kind of political tension that turned Trumper into the madman he was isn't an issue in today's world."

"Hah," said Florence. "Tell _that_ to the next body they pull out of the Thames, yeah?" She untucked her legs and stood up. "Hello, Anna. You look well."

"Thanks." She did, actually. To be fair, Florence had seen the woman a year and a half ago, four months into a very uncomfortable pregnancy, but still. She had more colour and a better haircut, and her clothes were a bit less sloppy. "You're holding in there too, I guess. Oliver said it's been a pretty shit week over in the office."

"It has."

Oliver and Cat went into the kitchen to get the drinks and Anna and Florence eyed each other. She was too pretty; Florence was fairly sure that was the problem. She should know better, but she distrusted blonds and she disliked immigrant children. "What are you up to now?"

"Still at the hospital." Anna smiled for a moment, which made her look even prettier, and even more like the blonde Russian girls who had gone to Florence's school when she was very small. "I've – I've got a baby, now."

"Found a new boyfriend?"

Hmm. She was even pretty when she blushed. "Not exactly. We – we had a young mother who died and, um, her relatives were unavailable, so I ended up adopting her. Christine. The baby, I mean." 

"Oh. That's nice. Is that why you called Oliver?"

Anna bristled. "You think I'm going to put the perfect family back together, yeah?" She looked like she was going to say more, but instead she got off the couch and walked over to the window to look down at the South Bank and the river. "Look, Florence, what did I ever do to you?"

"Nothing."

"So why do you not like me?"

Florence gazed at her teacup, then up at the fragile girl by the window, backlit in the twilight London sky. "There's enough going on in this world without people breaking other people's hearts for fun. That's all."

Anna nodded. She turned back to look out the window and said, "I didn't exactly choose to hurt him, you know. He's a lovely bloke, and I've missed him loads…I just needed some time away."

Florence was silent. She could understand that. She could understand that with her mind, just as she could understand that she resented Anna because Anna was one of those blond, pretty Russian girls, because Anna had gotten a baby at least for a little while. Because Anna had found a man who came back when she asked. 

Then Cat came in with some gin and tonics and the discussion was shelved. It went rather well, actually, and when the doorbell rang later, no one thought much about it. Cat went to open it, and they heard, vaguely, the rumble of voices in a rumbling, rounded language that was not English. 

Cat came back into the front room. "Florence," she said, and cleared her throat. "Florence, there's – a problem."

"_We_ have a problem," said one of the two men with Cat. He was tall and fair and extremely good looking but for once, Florence wasn't watching Alexei Solarin because she was riveted by the man behind him.

He was older than Solarin, with the same good bones and elegant face. He was still tall and his hair had gone white, but he was recognizable, from those intent, fanatic's eyes to his long-fingered hands to his polished shoes. Florence tottered forward a few steps and said, blankly, "Anatoly Sergievsky."

He nodded and Florence had the distinct, disturbing, and highly unusual experience of having those bright blues eyes fixed entirely and completely her. "Florence Vassey," he said eventually. "It _is_ Vassey?"

"It is." She took a deep breath and turned to his younger companion. "Hello, Alexei. What's the problem?" 

Solarin walked passed her, sat down on the couch and drew in a breath, let it go. He glanced at Cat, then Anatoly, then said, "KGB." 

"They're actually called - " said Oliver.

Florence snapped, "It doesn't matter. What else?"

The two chess-players exchanged glances and Solarin said in toneless Russian, "It's KGB or Vor."

Florence bit back curses in Czech, and paced to the kitchen and back. Oliver said, "_Fuck_," and Anna went pale. Florence was confused a moment, and then remembered that the girl's father had come out of Russia almost 30 years ago.

Anatoly spoke, his words slow and carefully chosen. "Molokov's in town," he said. "He used to be KGB, but now – anything's possible. We don't know if he's mob or FSB or unemployed, but it's a problem for both of us." Solarin, concentrating on his linked fingers, nodded. "He never gives up. It's his only virtue."

"Some virtue," muttered Oliver. He glanced at his ex-girlfriend and said in a gentler tone, "Anna, love, you all right?"

"I don't feel well," she said and half-turned towards the window. "Something just came over me – it's…How do you know, Alex?" she asked, turning to Solarin.

"I'm sorry; I can't tell you," he said and yawned enormously. 

"And you're not sure who he's working for?"

"Hard to tell." Alex looked up and noticed that Cat had come in with another glass. "Thank you," he said to his wife, taking a huge mouthful of red wine. "The local chapter's been a bit…unbalanced recently so it's hard to tell what they're up to anyway." 

Anna continued to stare out the window at the Thames. "I have to go. I'm sorry, everybody, but I – I have to go. I have to…feed Christine."

**A/N **_The Vor is the Russian mafia. Go watch Eastern Promises; that'll help._

_Well, it's technically a Chess fic, but everybody in this story is fictional in their own right and has their own story. It's mostly a cross-over with the movie Eastern Promises, but many thanks to Katherine Neville, and Woody Allen for allowing their characters to guest-star. I'm not making money off of anything; only coordinating an Anglo-Russian Immigrants weekend. _

_My Chess recording of choice is the London Original, but I have conceded to the New York version in only one respect because it's very, very hard to write a story about people with no names. But that doesn't mean I like them much._


End file.
